Love Is A Parallax
by SirusPolaris
Summary: Lackadaisy. One-shot. He’d do anything for that look, he’s killed for that look, because she’s precious to him, not because her godfather is paying him twenty dollars a month to keep her alive. Viktor x Ivy


**A/N:** Oh, God-- this fic ate up far too much of my spare time. Don't get me wrong, I'm so proud of it and think it's probably one of my best one-shots to date, but good _Christ_ am I tired of writing it. Anyways, I've been a fan of _Lackadaisy _for ages, and Viktor is one of the most intriguing characters in the plot. I find his gruffness pleasingly adorable, and I find him to be a wonderful contrast to Ivy. I am aware that Ms. Butler has discussed the lack of romantic feelings between the two character, but hey, that's why fanfiction is better than drugs.

**Disclaimer: **_Lackadaisy_ belongs to Tracy J. Butler. I do not, in any way, profit from this fiction.

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**Love Is A Parallax**

_"Yet love/knows not of death nor calculus above/the simple sum of heart plus heart._"

-x-

He's known her for most of her life, and she's always looked at him the same way—since the day Atlas had patted her on the head and looked him dead in the eye, an unspoken command: _keep her out of trouble_ (he knew the implicit threat behind Atlas' silent glare—he'd been a rum runner long enough to understand the gruesome consequences of disappointing one's employer). She was a tiny thing back then, he remembers, a tiny, skinny little kid with giant eyes and a cheeky grin that never seemed to fade or fall. And just that little smirk she wore all those years ago was enough to make his joints creak in that way they always did when he was feeling particularly ragged—he only had to see that look on her face _once_ to know that no doubt this unassuming child would bring him no end of complications.

It took barely a quarter of an hour to affirm that inkling suspicion: this adorable creature, Atlas' darling goddaughter, was a polarized conduit specially designed to attract all sorts of trouble.

At first, Viktor was irritated (but then again, he's hardly ever _not_ irritated)—he was the muscle and the intimidation and the firepower and _not_ the damn babysitter. It wasn't his stupid job to fish a mischievous six-year-old girl out from under the bar by her tail, or to mollify her fearful tears when she caught sight of a cockroach scurrying along the wall, or to humor her idle fancies by letting her paint his nails when she was bored (he was supposed to be a hired gun, for Christ's sake—what lowlife would take his threats seriously when he had such evenly glossed claws?).

Sometimes, he even thought he might resent Atlas for dumping this energetic little terror upon him when the bastard _knew_ exactly how much Viktor would _hate_ it.

But even back then, all it took was that _look_, one that spoke of her adulation and whole-hearted trust, combined with a particularly roguish gleam in those gigantic eyes of hers, and he was offering up his paw to let her test a new shade of 'Shimmering Peach' against his fur color, muttering Slavic curse words under his breath.. Years later, that same expression on her face still crows him, brings a rough, solid man like him to his aching knees to keep her lips quirked up at the corners (even though he won't admit it, it's that _look_ that has endeared her to him—it's for the _look_ that he tolerates her silliness).

And after a while, he starts to think that maybe this isn't _such_ a bad job, looking after her. Because while she can be an annoying, spoiled brat at times (like when she's stealing his hat or sneaking into the bar or throwing tantrums that can be heard across the Mississippi), she also has this energy, this overwhelming _essence_ that tugs and pulls and makes his heart ache in ways he's forgotten it could. Just the thought of any harm befalling this precious little girl (this little girl who has wormed her way under his skin and itches, itches, itches until he stops being such a brute to her and admits that maybe he _likes_ being around her, just a _little_) and there's ice condensing along the walls of his stomach. She's sweet and young and pure and all the things that he thinks should be preserved and kept close, and it doesn't take many of those _looks_ before he knows he'd stop a bullet for her without thinking. She's his _malenkaya_, his little one, his favorite (even though when anyone asks him he tells them she's a wild little monkey in desperate need of a leash).

The first time he realizes just how much this child has bewitched him is when she's almost kidnapped. One of Atlas's competitors had woken up feeling particularly ballsy that day, and later when she's playing on the floor behind the counter of The Little Daisy Café the bastard sends three armed men to fetch her. Viktor sends them back in body bags.

The lackeys are pathetically green and horrible shots—just one growl from him makes them look like they are going to piss themselves. Even so, just the sight of those pistols in the same _room_ as her is enough to make his paws shake and a cold sweat to break out along his stiffened spine (for the first time in a long time he's scared, really truly scared and it's all he can do to keep his gun-arm straight). He pictures the _look_ on her face, in her eyes and her smile, to steel his nerves and fires, fires, fires until nothing moves and everything grows quiet (save for her terrified sobs and his shuddering breath).

Later, when the mess has been cleaned and Atlas is patting him on the back and handing him a beer, Viktor finds nothing but gratitude in place of the normal self-loathing and weariness that normally accompanies shooting a bunch of under-aged rookies (looking back he sees that they were just _kids, _kidswith guns and an order from some bastard too chicken-shit to do the job himself). He's almost _glad _that Atlas has given him the responsibility for looking after his beloved goddaughter, because if he hadn't been there to protect her… he doesn't like thinking about it because it makes something in his stomach turn painfully cold and hard, like a chunk of ice sitting so still in the pit of his gut. It makes him feel like shaking and crying and possibly vomiting so he just doesn't think about the 'what if's'. He was there. She's safe. And he can breathe.

After three more beers, two gin and tonics and a shot of bourbon he finds himself telling his employer in a leveled voice that there are no thanks necessary, it was nothing (and really, he realizes much later when he's sober enough to think clearly, it is nothing—he would have done it anyways even if Atlas wasn't paying him for it because she's perfect and pure and so much a part of him that the thought of losing her actually _hurts_).

News of Victor's slaughter travels fast. Once people start figuring out that anyone stupid enough to send someone after Atlas's surrogate child would meet the business end of his tommy gun, the kidnapping attempts stop and Atlas gives him a raise (but that really doesn't mean anything to him at this point). He'd do anything for that _look_, he's _killed _for that look, because she's precious to him, not because her godfather is paying him twenty dollars a month to keep her alive.

Ten years pass and the _look_ doesn't change; it's still a painfully naïve expression of her confidence in him (it makes him feel prideful and dirty and invincible all at the same time), and it's because of this that he continues to follow Atlas' orders even after she no longer needs a babysitter. Only now he's snarling less at the creepy-crawly bugs on the bathroom floor and more at the legions of shifty-looking boys that follow her home.

No, the _look _doesn't change, but she does: she's sixteen and less skinny, having developed a willowy figure that catches the boys' eyes in a way it most certainly shouldn't (a way that makes Viktor's blood boil with indignation because she's his little girl and _no one_ should be looking at her like that). She's cut her hair and wears fashionable little outfits and her ability to pull trouble to her like a bloody magnet has only gotten stronger. She's a pretty little thing and he hates it worse than when she was little and annoying because _now_ he can't find a reason to stop protecting her. And what's worse—now that the boys have started noticing, she's noticing them right back and charming the lot of them with that stupid _look _(he can't help but hate ever single boy she drags into The Little Daisy Café even though he _knows _she's the initiating mastermind behind it—those boys never stood a chance). Viktor stares down boyfriend after boyfriend and it takes her months before she finally figures out that the reason her gentleman callers never call again is because he's been scaring them off. She yells at him for this, calls him a meanie and doesn't speak to him for a week, but he doesn't mind so much because he's disturbingly pleased that she's so surprised her dates are scared shitless of her father's surly bartender, that _she_ isn't afraid to bring boys to see him because _she_ doesn't see him as the big, hulking brute all the rest do (she knows him too well for that, and this perplexes him).

Eventually, the flood of suitors ebbs and he can relax a little, basking in the _look_ that is solely focused on him now that there are no more male classmates to draw it away. Before long, Viktor begins to consider it _his_ look (in his darkest, deepest, most precious moments he thinks of the _look_ on her face and feels less like a monster and more like a man again), and the two of them fall into a sort of comfortable limbo where she appreciates him and he takes care of her, and everything is okay. Great, even. It's the first time in a long time that he doesn't feel on guard every second and angry at nothing and everything, because he has her and that _look_ to ease the insecurities and despair in his black, black heart. For the first time in a long time, Viktor thinks he might be _happy_ (or at the very least, not _un_happy, which he takes to be a drastic improvement).

However, after Atlas dies, everything changes, including the _look. _

She's eighteen, fully grown and gorgeous and more of a handful now than ever (but even _that's_ sexy, the boys say when they think he's not listening, and he growls and bares his teeth even though Atlas isn't alive to pay him for it anymore). The first time he notices this is on some random Saturday evening when she's heading down to the speakeasy to help Mitzi, and like any proper woman of the time she's dressed to the nines with feathers in her hair and pearls glittering at her throat. He'd heard the noisy _click-click_ of her heels on the stone steps and when he looks up, something in his chest tightens and he can't breathe… (at this point, he's either going into shock or dying; he can't tell). Her slinky black dress clings to her body in a way he'd disapprove of if he wasn't suffering a mild heart-attack—it swishes flimsily at her knees and when she lifts her leg to descend the stairs his sharp eye catches the hint of a lacy garter through the fringed hem of her skirt (she's too young to be wearing that sort of clothing but oh sweet Jesus does it look good on her). That stupid (wonderful) strip of cloth around her thigh destroys the image he'd been carrying around in his head of the sweet, innocent little girl who'd beg him for piggyback rides. Now she's a grown up woman with a grown up body and _he's going to Hell_ for noticing it (for appreciating it, for _enjoying_ it).

His brain has no idea _what _to do with this current version of her (though the rushing of his blood straight from his head shows that his body has a few ideas). He immediately feels like a dirty old man for reacting to her like one of her horny schoolmates—she's young enough to be his daughter and he most definitely should _not_ be so awed by how her dress's plunging neckline accentuates the _endowments_ he had so steadfastly ignored up until now.

"What?" she asks him, pausing on the stairs with a puzzled expression on her powdered face. Her slender paws (so small and dainty) come up to straighten her whiskers. "Is there something on my face? Why are you looking at me like that?"

He doesn't answer (he can't, his voice is lodged somewhere in his throat and refuses to come out), only forces his face into its usual scowl because he realizes he's been gaping like a fish at a girl he's practically raised and at the very _least _she doesn't deserve to be leered at by the likes of him. Still, he watches her shrug in response because he can't _stop_ watching her—even after all of these years she's still a magnet for trouble and she's pulling, pulling, pulling and he _can't _look away (he desperately misses his right eye because he wants it, he _needs_ it to look at her, to take her all in).

And damn it all, she notices him looking (because he _is_ looking, because he is a man before he is a gentleman and all men _look_ even if they are cranky old bartenders) and she smiles like she knows something important that he hasn't yet caught onto. This sets about the stirrings of unease in his chest, but then she gives him the _look_ (only it's not the _look _ he knows, it's not _his_ look but something subtly _different_) and it's real, tangible fear churning in his gut like a tropical storm and he knows he's in trouble.

It's that exact moment when she stops looking at him like she used to and starts giving him looks that truly frighten him. The blind adoration is still there, beaming up at him, but that sly glint in her large, perfect eyes screams 'trouble' in a desperately different way than before, in smoldering Valentino-esque undertones (undertones which she is _too young_ to understand and use the way she's doing).

She brushes past him on the stairs and he feels an electric shock from where her angled shoulder just barely touches his as she glides around him. He can smell her perfume and it tightens every muscle in his body.

Later (much later) when he's keeping himself up at night trying so hard _not_ to think of how easily her hips would fit into his paws or how soft the fur of her legs had looked beneath the fringe of her dress, Viktor makes a deal with himself. He promises not to let himself be swayed by her flirty little skirts and her painfully sultry _looks_ because she is young and foolish and doesn't know the half of what she's doing to him (she _can't _know, because what beautiful young thing would ever want a grizzled, broken man like him?). He vows to continue his protection and silent, subtle adoration, but he will not sully her visage by doing the unthinkable and _responding_ to her altered _look_.

Still, it doesn't stop his traitorous body from wanting, dreaming, _wishing_ every time she's near enough to touch.

Of course, after this it gets worse.

Now, instead of dragging all of those eager, hopeful, terrible boys into Mitzi's diner, she lures them to downstairs to the gin mill (which rubs him wrong in all ways possible. He distrusts those stinking pigs when they're sober—he doesn't want them within fifty feet of his _malenkaya _when they're drinking). And she wears those slinky little dresses that fly up at the waist when she twirls and she curls her eyelashes so that when she flashes the boys the _look_ (_his look_) they can see every gleam and glitter in the spectrum of colors in her eyes.

The worst thing about it is that he can't put a stop to it—her behavior, the _look_ that she seems to throw around at _anybody_ (this bothers him more than it should, because it's not _his _look, because she's not _his_ girl in any way, shape, or form). He can't trust himself to speak, not when she's making eyes at every decent-looking roustabout this side of the Mississippi (including that noodle-armed violinist from Zib's awful band) because what can he possibly say? Atlas is dead and she no longer needs him to shelter her—she's old enough now to make her own awful decisions.

He can't even look at her properly anymore—the cutie-pie face that was so adorably sweet is now tempered with something too sultry and smoky, like smooth, dark, perfectly-aged wine (she is equally intoxicating). He can't _look_ at her. Because it makes his paws itch to know that he cannot have her.

It certainly doesn't help that she seems so innocently oblivious to the things that she's doing to his head, because she's always hanging on him and touching his arm and smiling at him and giving him that goddamn _look_ more times than he can count. Sometimes she'd give it through fluttering eyelashes, sometimes over the feathery fringe of an elegant fan--but in her harsher, crueler moments, she focuses those enormous, open eyes on his, wide and unhindered, until his heart _aches_ and all he can do is just stand there quietly while she utterly _devastates_ him again and again without ever realizing_. _

But despite how his guilt ping pongs back and forth over his consideration of her as a child and _not_ a child, Viktor never once considers leaving (though it would be easier than the daily torment she puts him through with her knowing smiles and giant, yellow eyes). Even though Atlas is dead and he has no real contract with Mitzi. Even though the Lackadaisy's new rum runners are backwards and incompetent. Even though working there gets him shot in the chest by some two-bit pig farmer _hick _who handles a gun worse than Zib's violinist. Even though working there puts him so painfully close to her sweet, beautiful, heart-rending_ looks_, he stays like a fool behind the bar in the limestone catacombs of the speakeasy_._

Maybe he stays because he needs it to fulfill him, needs the guns and the danger and the killing because that's how he works—he's a killer and a sick, sick man and this is the only environment that will sustain him anymore. Maybe it's because he's too old to job hunt in St. Louis with all the young upstarts thinking they're hot shit with their semi-automatics and their false courage.

Maybe it's because he loves her (has always loved her, in that dark, twisted way of his).

Maybe it's not.

Regardless, Viktor never asks for an escape from her seeking eyes (he'd rather suffer in her company than suffer without it). And his scheme to systematically ignore her subtle changes works fairly well. He snaps at her more (but he doesn't mean it) and doesn't touch her for over a month. Above all, he doesn't meet her eyes when she flashes him any of her _looks_ (even the ones he misses, _especially_ those), and after a while the thought of her bright, bright eyes fades away into the dark recesses of his mind until he no longer dreams of them at night (all that's left are the lustful imaginations of her in heels and pearls with that lacy garter winking at him from beneath the hem of her dress like pure sex—but at least abolishing the _look _ has stopped him from wanting more than that).

It takes time, but Viktor is patient and determined and eventually the thought of those _looks_ no longer haunts him like they used to—in their place is a sort of dull, old ache like the one in his knees and the one in his heart (it's old, old, old and unfixable and Viktor lives with it the best he can).

So he goes on caring about her in secret and ignoring her in public and repressing dirty, awful thoughts about her in his head, and it _works_ (sort of).

That is, until she corners him on the car ride back to his apartment.

The doctor (veterinarian, actually—the man specializes in horses but he's the only man willing to dig out a quarter pound of lead from his chest without asking too many questions) had removed the buckshot from his lungs the best he could under local anesthetic and high doses of Green River Whiskey.

At the beginning it seemed that she was prepared to wait out the gory removal by his side, his large, calloused paw so firmly clasped within her own that it sent his poor old heart into arrhythmia. It had taken a lot of convincing from Dr. Leo (and ultimately a sharp look of reprimand from Viktor) to get her to head back to the diner so that he could begin the impromptu-operation. She had waited in the café with Mitzi's beau until he was patched and ready to be transported back home (later, when he's sobered up from the operation and she's back to her old game and chasing Rocky's mentally-unstable cousin, Wick tells him that she had been a ball of nervous energy fit to burst, fretting like a mother hen over his condition until the doctor came with good word).

But at the time, he couldn't come up with an image of her worrying for him—in his semi-conscious state with the doctor's tweezers pulling lead from his insides, his mind had wandered back over the look of surprise on the pig-farmer's face as she (stupid, stupid, lovely little fool) grabbed the barrel of his gun and set about attacking his shins with her ridiculous shoes. And when Viktor had pushed her aside and wrapped a thick hand around the little bastard's throat, he hadn't missed the look of relief that had crossed his panic-stricken features. He thought that she had spared him with her intervention.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

All it took was just one brief vision of her grappling with that useless lackey for the shotgun, eyes wide, and Viktor could hardly wait for her to disappear down the stairs before he turned the farmer's grey matter into a black stain on the garage floor.

It takes a long, long while for the spinning images of the blood and the pain and her terrified face to stop floating in and out of his vision. With the whiskey and morphine mixing in his system and coursing so strongly through his veins, the fuzzily-alert part of his brain is distantly aware of his mouth framing the shape of her name, over and over (like a charm, a prayer). His body feels light and numb as the doctor leans over to shine a light in his eyes, and for a split second there's fear shooting down his deadened nerves like electricity (he could see her name on his lips, he had to, and oh God Viktor prays the doctor understands).

If Leo sees the movement of his mouth, he doesn't show it or mention it when he's coherent enough to explain himself should the doctor ask him to, and Viktor's grateful for this.

After handing the doctor a wad of crisp bills and sending him on his way (to this day, he has no idea how she twisted Wick's arm hard enough to get him to pay for his medical expenses), Mr. Sable offers to drive him home with one of the Lackadaisy's spare cars, and she insists on accompanying them.

"That's completely unnecessary, Miss Pepper," Wick says politely, eyeing her squared shoulders and set jaw with only a hint of apprehension. "I can assure you that I will get Mr. Vasko home safe and sound."

But she only clings tighter to Viktor's side, his arm over her shoulders to support his weight and he can feel the tension in her body, stubborn and strong (the drugs pale in comparison to how high he feels with her pressed so close). Her eyes are determinedly hard and she clutches his paw in a vice-like grip, and he knows she's not letting him go until she's sure he'll be safe.

And he knows for a fact that no one can say no to her, so when Wick ends up relenting with only a sigh and a wave of his arm he's not surprised in the least.

The automobile isn't a flashy ride or a utility vehicle, just a dependable ford with a working engine that Mitzi uses as back up when her Buick breaks down every other week. With Wick in the driver's seat, she insists he sit in the back where he can stretch out more comfortably. He can see their reflection in Wick's rearview mirror, side by side, her hands folded primly in her lap and the bared fur of her knee barely touching his leg, just brushing the fabric of his pants. He can feel her movements acutely through the thin fog of morphine, sharp points of focus in a blurry world that send his heart skipping.

They ride in thick silence with only the clunking of the car over the dirty city streets and the sound of traffic whirring past the windows. He feels more than sees her body expand and shrink in a sigh beside him, and despite how his instincts are screaming at him not to prompt her his mouth moves of its own accord to ask her what's wrong (he blames the drugs, he blames his weakness, he blames his stupid, foolish heart).

She's silent for a beat and he holds his breath. At long last, she speaks (and he breathes).

"Do you…" she asks, fiddling with the long string of faux pearls dangling between her breasts (he doesn't look. He _refuses_ to look). "… Do you not… like me anymore, or something?"

Viktor blinks—he hadn't been expecting that—and asks her to explain in a voice that comes off gruff and wary when he had intended for it to be neutral.

"You… never…" those bright eyes are filling with tears now, averted to the ground below her perfectly-shined shoes and it physically _hurts _himto look at her now because she looks so small and sad and wounded. "… you don't... every time you're around me you act like it's this big chore, like you hate it."

She's crying and it's his fault and Christ, he'd give his good eye just to make her stop.

"You don't look at me anymore," she says in a voice that's choked and watery and sends his heart skipping erratically (like a heart attack). "Why? What did I do?"

And she's peering up at him with eyes glittering with unshed tears, piercing him straight through, the _look_ taking on a whole new glowing, dazzling effect that sends a sharp, longing ache through every nerve in his body (one that has nothing to do with the fresh stitches in his chest). He needs to touch her, to wipe those tears from her bottom lashes with a calloused finger, to pull her close and tell her how sorry he is for hurting her, and finally, _finally_ put his lips to hers just like his dreams had demanded. He _needs _it, and not having it is suffocating him more than the lead in his lungs.

_I love you_, the words are brimming inside of him, thick and heady and ready to overflow. _I love you I love you I love you_.

"Viktor?" her voice is whispery and sad, but (_good Christ_) her eyes are imploring and shining with… something he cannot put a name to. It's not that dirty, smoldering gleam she's been flashing him lately, and it's not the sweetly innocent adoration that used to beam from her eyes when she was young. It's something else entirely, something strong and sure and sweet and so frightening that all of the _I love you_'s die in his throat, dried up like water in a desert.

So he calls her _malenkaya_ and touches her hair with a heavy paw that shakes only slightly (he's proud of this accomplishment, considering every fiber of his being quakes more violently than a thunderstorm whenever she's near and her hair is even softer than he'd imagined it to be). He tells her he doesn't hate her and that his being an ass has nothing to do with her, and this is possibly the worst truth (and most powerful lie) that he's ever uttered in one gravelly, desperate sentence.

She leans into his touch, turning her head into his paw and he can feel the wetness of her tears on his palm. His chest constricts and all thoughts flee from his head at the softness of her fur, and this is by far the most intimate moment he's ever shared with another person and all he wants is for this second in time to stretch on for as long as possible (he wants to forget what it was like to have never had such tenderness in his life, to have never been so completely hers). He doesn't care if Wick sees them in the mirror, her face pressed into his hand and her tears on his skin—this is all that he ever wanted and more than he ever dreamed he deserved, and damn Wick and damn the Lackadaisy and damn whole world if they can't understand this.

Beside him, around him, within him, she sighs, and something inside of him fills like a glass. They don't move for a long time.

A short eternity later, she pulls away, increment by increment until she's holding his paw in her lap, fingers idly tracing the lines in his palm.

"What does it mean?"

He's startled by her voice, despite its soft, lilting timbre. Her eyes, luminous as twin moons, flicker up shyly to meet his dark, glaring one.

"_Malenkaya,_" she says, and the word rolls off of her tongue as thick as honey and just as sweet.

_It means…_ he wants to tell her, he's desperate for it. She's young and beautiful and he's old and broken but it doesn't mean _anything_ when she's looking at him so hopefully, so expectantly, eyes welling with something more than tears. _It means…_

Before he can tell her the car groans to a halt, and the slap of Mr. Sable slamming the driver's side door to let them out of the back snaps him out of his dazed, calm state (he can't believe that he was going to tell her _everything_, just like _that_). She jerks away abruptly, and he turns his nastiest glare on Mitzi's beau as he swings open the door with a cheery smile.

"Here we are, Mr. Vasko," he says, ignoring the fact that Viktor's glare alone could have killed relatively small animals. "Home, sweet home."

The scarred, chipping edifice of his apartment building must look like shit compared to the upscale dormitories his companions are used to, and he deepens his scowl as he slides creakingly out of the vehicle.

"Thank you, Mr. Sable," she says, at his side as soon as both high-heels are firmly on the pavement. "I'll get him upstairs. Go back to Mitzi—I'll catch a cab."

Wick looks uncertain—Viktor's neighborhood is undeniably shady and though she's most certainly capable of handling herself, she's still a pretty little girl and there are too many men out there willing to take advantage of that.

Still, all it takes is the _look_ from her and a nod of agreement from Viktor to send Wick back to the speakeasy, the Ford spewing smoke from its exhaust as it crests a hill and drives out of site.

His flat is on the fourth floor of the decrepit building, and even on his best days the stairs are hard on his knees. Now, he struggles for breath as she helps him limp up four flights, paws gripping the stairwell railings and bracing against dirty walls.

When they finally reach his door, he's breathing as raggedly as a marathon runner and is too unfocused to fit his key into the lock (she takes it from her shaking hands with tiny, gentle fingers and turns the key, tumblers falling into place and the door swinging open effortlessly).

His vision swims, and before he knows it he's hurtling towards the floor, bad knee buckling beneath him.

But there's no impact or pain, only the slight shaking of her willowy arms holding him aloft and close to her beating heart.

"Gotcha," she says breathlessly, staggering under the bulk of his weight and shuffling towards the couch.

After a bit of struggling she drops him unceremoniously to the stained cushions, allowing him to right himself into a comfortable position before seating herself next to him.

"There," she smiles concernedly, pressing a paw to his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

He wants to say yes, but before the word forms he's choking on air and there's a sharp pain blossoming below his sternum.

One paw fisted and covering his mouth, the other worked its way down the buttons of his shirt with shaking fingers, opening the garment to expose the freshly soiled bandages twisting around his torso. Her eyes widen at the sight of red, red blood staining the center of the bandages in a cross across his chest.

"_Viktor!"_ the sobbing hitch in her voice makes him ache in unimaginable ways. "Oh my gosh, you're bleeding! Are you okay? Does it hurt? Should we call the doctor?"

He tries to assure her as her tiny paws frantically pat his chest, his stomach—touching him erratically through the bandages as if unsure of what to do (wounds aside, if she keeps touching him like this he might do something completely wrong and uncalled for, like kiss her). He's had worse wounds, and knows for certain that there's nothing wrong with his stitches—he'd just over-exerted himself on the stairs—but with his lungs still clenching and refusing to draw air all he can do is bat her paws away and hope she understands.

She doesn't.

"_No!_" she says, shooing his paws away and returning hers to his chest. "You don't _understand!_ I can't… if anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do!"

Her eyes are pinning him like a paralyzed butterfly to a corkboard, holding him rigidly still and unable to escape. She's giving him the _look _again, the one he dreams of and despises, and it feels like an ending.

"You're stupid, you know that? What were you thinking going after those men? They had _guns, _Viktor! _Guns!_ You could have been _killed! _God, what am I supposed to do if… if…"

And then, faster than he can react, she leans in and presses her lips firmly to the corner of his mouth, kisses him twice in quick succession.

His world narrows into two distinct points: his lips and hers, and he can no longer feel the burn of his stitches or the throbbing of his knees or the aching of his heart, and the sensation sits with him like a small death, devastating and perfect. Later, he'll remember that her cheeks were wet with tears that streamed down his cheeks like they were his own, that her paws were clutching his shirt collar and pulling him up and forward, that her perfume was dark and sweet like a violet. As it is, he's too shocked to even remember to kiss her back.

And when she pulls back (sharp and swift, _I'm sorry I'm sorry_) and his brain resumes normal function, his mouth opens of its own accord and words erupt from his throat.

"Stay," Viktor says in a voice that's heavier than his voice. "Please stay."

He's never said _please_ before, and never used a voice so quietly vulnerable, that he's surprised with himself (even more surprised that he's not ashamed). Mitzi will be horrified, her school friends will sneer and snigger, and Atlas will probably roll in his grave, but he cannot stop this connection brewing inside of him like a tidal wave, just as he cannot fight her magnetic pull that keeps him from letting her go.

"B-but…" she starts, face flushed and eyes dusky. "Your wounds… should we call Dr. Leo back to fix them?"

_I love you_, the words fill him again, but he swallows them (now's not the time). Instead, he takes her paw and places it over his heart to allow her to feel the harsh skipping pulse below his ribs.

"Nothing to fix," he says, looking her right in the eye, and she shudders and nods in understanding (his heart swells with something he dares not give a name, and the look she's giving him is enough to set something off in side of him like a Chinese firework, bright enough to light up all the dark places in his heart).

That night, after redressing his wounds (he had only lost a stitch, as he'd assumed) and changing into a clean shirt, they curl up on his dirty mattress, fully dressed and uncovered by the thin cotton sheet in his mismatched bed set, exposed to the muggy night air. Her dress is stiff with beads and his suspender clasps are digging uncomfortably into his hips, but despite her bravado she's still only a girl, willing but not yet ready and he wouldn't dare make a move to rush her.

It's strange and terrifying to allow his arm to come across her narrow waist, to let her nuzzle into his chest like she belongs there. He's dreamed of moments like this for nearly a year, he's risked his life for this, and now that he has her in his arms he's never felt so unsure and undeserving of it.

Her eyes are the stars and the sky together as one, an amalgam of all known metaphors for beauty and light and they're focused solely on him (he basks, he glows, he waits). This _look_ is the same. This _look_ is different. This _look_ is his whole existence down to the beat of his heart beneath her palm. This _look _truly is _his_ _look_, and finally, _finally_ he can stop scowling and snarling and bullying and just be with her and _look_ back.

He can see her smile form in her eyes before it spreads across her lips, and it washes over him like a cool breeze in the humidity of the night.

"You mean the world to me," she tells him in a whisper, like it's a secret. His old heart aches and burns and shivers at this, and it's everything, _everything_.

He says her name in his sweetest, truest voice, and her smile softens.

"Goodnight, Viktor," she murmurs into his chest, bright eyes sliding shut and breath evening as she drifts into sleep.

He watches the steady rise and fall of her tiny rib cage with a sharp eye (he always watches her), feeling his own heart rise and fall with her. She is the tension before a wave, she is the crash after the fact, and he is awash with the scent of her. He wants this and only this, this is perfect and he cannot even hope to keep it (he doesn't want to think of what will happen when she comes to her senses and realizes he's just another old, used-up man, so he just doesn't think about it). He only closes his eyes and breathes in her scent and _lives _(for the first time, for the last time, for every moment in between).

"_Malenkaya_," he tells her sleeping form, "_Vi ste tudi plemenit mi. Ljubim te._"

Beside him, Ivy curls deeper into his side and breathes.

* * *

**A/N:** Title and quote are from a beautiful poem called _Love Is A Parallax_ by Sylvia Plath.

Slavic to English dictionary:

_Malenkaya_-- favorite, precious one.

_Vi ste tudi plemenit mi_-- You are so precious to me.

_Ljubim te_--I love you.

_**Please Review!**_


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